


los muertos no descansan.

by thatluckyrabbit



Series: Let Me See You Stripped Down to the Bone [1]
Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: AU where hector died knowing ernesto killed him and hes now an angry spirit/ghost, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Gen, Ghosts, Haunting, Supernatural Elements, cause i like the idea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 03:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13262877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatluckyrabbit/pseuds/thatluckyrabbit
Summary: In life, Héctor Rivera had never been the negative--or anywhere near a hateful--type of person. He was a good soul, a pure heart, and some would say that enough is a death sentence. The good always die young as the saying goes. And for as good in life as he’d been—filled with nothing but love for his family, kindness for strangers, a passion for music and a whole life ahead of him it would seem—in death, however, was a different story.Murder does tend to change everything.





	los muertos no descansan.

**Author's Note:**

> So i saw this movie and did not expect to love it as much as I did nor to come out of the theater with a new son (i love hector so much), and because Im fascinated with true crime and murder mysteries and the supernatural elements to it as well as paranormal hauntings and also an au fanatic, this idea came to mind and I HAD to write it. It's just this short thing for now but I think I might have an idea to continue it, but yeah. It's been a while since i've written anything honestly and this is my first story for coco, but i went the au route cause this idea wouldn't leave me alone. so yep, enjoy!!

 

In life, Héctor Rivera had never been the negative--or anywhere near a hateful--type of person. He was a good soul, a pure heart, and some would say that enough is a death sentence. The good always die young as the saying goes. And for as good in life as he’d been—filled with nothing but love for his family, kindness for strangers, a passion for music and a whole life ahead of him it would seem—in death, however, was a different story.  
  
Death was one thing. _Murder,_ however, changes everything. No longer was he a man with a whole future still ahead of him and a family waiting for him at home, now he was but air; cold and unfeeling physically and yet still _so_ aware, more so now dead than when alive. A dead man with nothing left to lose now that he’d lost everything. And it wasn’t just him that had lost, it was his poor family too; Coco, his darling, precious daughter would forever be spent wondering why her father never came home, and never would Héctor get to be there for her physically—to hold her, soothe her when she cried, or sing to her, ever again in this lifetime... and Imelda... his beautiful wife; as strong of a woman as she was on her own, it hurt him to think of how she would now spend her time, a widow, raising their daughter all alone without him there. Never would they sing together again, never could he hold her or kiss her or feel her warmth against his body—she now slept alone in the bed they once shared and he was now nothing but a cold and lingering spirit, consumed with despair and hatred for what had been lost.  
  
Lost, no. _Taken_ was more like it. A wonderful life taken too early by a man he once called his _amigo_. A man he’d practically grown up with—they'd been parentless boys with bright futures ahead despite growing up in an orphanage, with a great love and passion for singing—and completely trusted. The same man he'd trusted who had committed the ultimate betrayal against him.  
  
_Ernesto._  
  
The name alone set off a fury within him, coldness everywhere else within his 'body' except his chest, where a sudden heat flared up—a similar sensation he’d felt in the moments of death, when he couldn’t breathe, when the poison had set in and clenched his stomach painfully and sent him heaving for breath, all while looking towards Ernesto for help, terrified as to why he was in pain, and why that pain wasn’t going away but only getting worse as the moments ticked away, his life approaching the final moments. And Ernesto, his once dear _amigo_ , only watched him with cold, empty eyes, as Héctor collapsed finally and writhed on the pavement. While it was only pain the dying man had been able to register in those moments, he would never forget the look in Ernesto’s eyes—and before darkness took him in, he was only left with confusion and fear. Until the last thing he heard, besides his own pained gasps, was Ernesto’s last words to him.  
  
“It had to be done, _mi amigo._ ”  
  
It wasn’t until he came to, up and out of his body, that he realized with a blinding furry of emotions building up within him, that not only had he **died,** but it was _Ernesto_ who had taken his life. _**Murdered**_ him. Watched him die. And to make matters worse, Ernesto simply dragged Héctor’s lifeless body like a heap of trash to a good, remote spot near the place they’d been staying at prior, and in the dead of night with a shovel soon acquired, burying him in a shallow grave where Héctor would never be found. Which meant not only did Ernesto murder him, but he kept the body hidden—making it seem as though Héctor had simply left, only not to return home, but simply vanishing somewhere within Mexico. Leaving Imelda and Coco behind on his own will; leaving Imelda to resent Héctor’s very memory and Coco left without her beloved father and only able to wonder why he’d left, and why he was never coming home. 

All because of Ernesto.  
  
In life he’d never been an angry man or filled with any hatred, but in that moment, once the shock and grief and despair rolled away, one into another, it all melted and formed into a boiling rage, and as he was buried, he could only shout and rage and scream as Ernesto wordlessly buried his body without a single care or thought. No one could hear Héctor now as they had in life with his songs—his screams of fury and despair silently filling the night like a plea for help going unanswered and unheard.  
  
And as the days turned to weeks and then months and eventually years, with Ernesto gradually moving into the life of glory and fame and love from millions, Héctor was left in his shadow—hollow and alone in the darkness, consumed by grief and hatred for his killer, so much so he was no longer the same as he'd been in life, and worse, couldn’t _leave._ As if what Ernesto had done wasn't bad enough, soon Héctor found he couldn’t leave to even see or at the least watch over his family. He was stuck with Ernesto, stuck in his presence, left to remember what had happened, to relive his last moments, to hear Ernesto speak or sing and only remember the last words that had been spoken to him from his trusted friend.  
  
“Not only did you murder me, bu I cant’t leave—“ the spirit hissed, hovering above Ernesto’s sleeping form late one night. “That's what you wanted, _sí_? For me not to leave. All so you could achieve your dreams.”  
  
Ernesto shifted a little in his sleep, but didn’t look too distressed, as Héctor had figured. No matter how much he screamed or yelled at Ernesto over the years, the now famous and beloved singer would never hear him, nor see him. Oh how Héctor wished he could enter his killer’s dreams at least and haunt him there, _somewhere_ , let him know what he had done and remind him of what had happened. But no. Of course, Ernesto could never hear him, and Héctor was left stuck with his killer and watching him live out a good life that was not at all deserving—all while Héctor could only be left in his hatred towards him and wondering deep down about how his wife and child were doing now without him, years later, and wondering when he’d ever see them again. If ever. It only added to the hatred he felt.  
  
It hurt too much to think about them most of the time, let alone remember the memories he held dear and yet such memories felt as faint as his last few beats of his heart had felt before he died—it _ached_. No, it was the anger, the hatred keeping him going now. It was all he had now; the desire to see justice done, to watch karma get a hold of his murderer for the sins done against him. Héctor was but a young man, a husband and a father and a friend. And he was murdered, all so his once _amigo_ could become famous.  
  
And being forced to watch as Ernesto’s dreams came true—a dream only really achieved by taking Héctor’s dreams and future and life away from him—felt as much a slap to the face as being murdered and buried in an unmarked grave had. The hurt of a victim only lasted so long before the anger came back to carry him on—rage at the unfairness of it all.  
  
“I should be growing old with Imelda,” Héctor continued, voice as cold as the energy he was left as in death, “I should be watching _mi hija_ grow up, and be there for her when she needs me... I should be there during her first heartbreak, to comfort her, and to help Imelda raise her.... and to be there on Coco’s wedding day...” The more he thought about everything he was missing out on in his daughter’s life, and how his wife would be growing old without him there, left thinking he’d just abandoned them... the fiery disgust and animosity he felt towards the sleeping man below him only grew. And oh how he wished he could hurt Ernesto back for what he’d done. But all he could do was speak to his killer, and go unheard as usual.  
  
“I should be alive... I should be with them... ! And yet here I am... Dead... _because of **you!** ”_  
  
The last words he bellowed came out with such a ferocity that, while Ernesto hadn’t heard him specifically, a glass that was on the nightstand next to him had shattered on impact by the sudden burst of energy emitted by the dead man hovering above Ernesto De la Cruz. And it was _that_ , that got the famed singer to awake immediately, startled by the sudden shattering of glass.  
  
Héctor froze, realizing that the glass had shattered obviously as a result of the energy of his rage. Something which had not happened before. It was the first time in years since dying that he was able to physically affect something in the living world. In some ways it almost felt like being noticed, even if he couldn’t be seen or heard, still. The way Ernesto was looking around in the dark, eyes wide and gasping and clearly confused and afraid, even just for a brief moment...  
  
“...now you at least know what I felt like when I died,” the spirit said, tone quieter now, a whisper unheard in the air. “...even if only a bit...” He leaned in a little closer to his murderer, as Ernesto started to calm down and realize that, in a way his mind could rationalize, that the glass simply must have been knocked over somehow. Oh if only he knew. And while even Héctor wasn’t even sure how he had been able to shatter the glass, let alone not knowing whether or not he’d be able to do that ever again and that perhaps it was just some fluke, he planned to keep trying. Somehow. Fluke or not he wouldn’t let the opportunity go to waste one way or another. “...remember, Ernesto... _los muertos no descansan._ ”


End file.
